


Tomorrow will always be brighter

by immune_emu



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Gen, Mentions of dead parents, Sebastian offers advice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 04:22:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19433836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/immune_emu/pseuds/immune_emu
Summary: All of them offer the same stale words, the same tries to comfort something that just can't be healed. So young still. Your time is coming. You will get there.He'd rather take their silence if it meant he could stoke his anger in peace, because their words only make way for all that hurts.





	Tomorrow will always be brighter

_Your time will come._ Words that linger so bitterly because he has heard them before. A mountain of expectations on his shoulders, the whispers of ghosts long gone turning to haunting screams inside him.  
_You are so young, there's so many races out there that you will win._ And so many that he wont. So many where he will fight tooth and nail, and it will end up just like this, left among the others and helplessly see the light of another car disappear. No podium in the world matters when victory goes away like that, not when this was supposed to be the one. The one for them, to soothe the burning memories. And it is with tears in his eyes and a clenched jaw that he tries to stay collected, anger licking his skin when he sees the celebrations on the top step. That was supposed to be his place, and no second place in the world can heal what he feels. After all, silver is just the first of the losers.

He tries to walk away from everything, where their greetings turn to terrors on his back, handshake after handshake becoming nothing more than polite attempts of consolation. But all of them offer the same stale words, the same tries to comfort something that just can't be healed. _So young. Your time will come. You will get there._  
He'd rather take their silence if it meant he could stoke his anger in peace, because their words only make way for all that hurts.

When he was younger it didn't hurt like this, it didn't feel like his throat was closing in on itself and like his veins were lit on fire. It was still only the sun warming his face after battles on far too small tracks, the smell of burnt rubber causing him to sneeze and the playful mockery from.. from them. It didn't matter if he was the first or the second to pass the chequered flag then, as long as he got to be out there and drive, as long as he got to be one of the fastest. He always chased the dream and he always tried to be the best, and with every frown on his face there was the comforting hand of his father. Always with a gentle caress of his cheek, telling him to cheer up because he did so good out there. And every time they walked back to the car, the large warm hand of his father resting on his shoulder, words of how they would learn from this and be better the next time, and he knew that everything would be okay.  
He would give everything to feel that again. Give everything to just be able to sit down with him and just talk. And to see the glint in his eyes when he won, god, he would have been happy over this podium too, he would have been so happy and he would have made the all the rage and sadness disappear in a heartbeat.  
“I tried papa, I tried..” His voice comes out as a breaking whisper and he buries his head in his hands, lost just like before, just like the evening in the hot desert when it all slipped out of his fingers. But this time it is with a new type of pain, a worse one, because this time it wasn't the car that failed him. It was just a flying Dutchman that came in his way, and he just was not good enough this time to stop the charge. It stings his eyes and just the thought of the collision fuels the fire inside.  
It is a barely noticeable knock on the door that brings him back to the motorhome and he looks up just in time to see his teammate enter with careful steps. The man who has stood at the tallest step so many times before, the one that turned champion and has felt the taste of victory. It is something he usually does not care about, but for the first time when he sees him he only feels envy.  
All he can do is to force a weak smile as the man sits down next to him. And it feels like an eternity of silence before the German speaks.  
“It's gonna hurt a long time. Just like it did in Bahrain, maybe even worse.”  
“I know.”  
The man nods at him, the air still thick with disappointment and the pain of not reaching all the way. You can always walk longer. Always become someone better. He just doesn't know how, not right now.  
He expects to hear much more, for the man to just not sit there but to say all things that are meant to make things better. But he sits patiently, looking over at him from time to time. And it takes far too long for him to realise that the older man is waiting for him to speak. But words get stuck on his tongue, because how do you pronounce a fire that burns so bright that all your letters feels dipped in sulphur? He hears a light sigh, looks up and meets the eyes of a man that has been there and knows of the pain.  
“You're pissed, I get it. I would be too, but you know how he drives. He throws his heart first in hope to make a corner, and somehow it works.”  
He isn't sure if the man is somehow extending a new apology for the other driver, but he doubts it. Still it makes the fire linger, it awaits with curiosity a new reason to explode, and it is on his tongue when he finally gets the few words out.  
“He hit me.”  
“And the next time you will hit him, or he will hit someone else. You know that, the only thing you can do is drive good and hope for the best. And if you are smart, you take all that you are feeling now, you take that and you use it to get better.”  
It is distant words he has heard before, in a time where they last fought tooth and nail. Where it always was unsure over who would end up taking a top spot and he learned to let the fire cool down. Letting fire burn means it will consume you, and it is the last thing he wants. He looks over at the man next to him, the German sitting there with his hands clasped.  
“You're not gonna tell me that the next time will be different?”  
It is pain in the words spoken. His teammate just shakes his head.  
“I don't know if it will. We got a car that isn't the fastest, but you got your head on your shoulders. Next time maybe you're ten seconds ahead or ten seconds behind, who knows.”  
It isn't the words he want to hear, but his teammate remains the only one that never offers platitudes and tales of how it gets better. The man has been there standing with far too thin shoes in sharp wet gravel, to the thrills of leering fans of other drivers. He's heard it all during far too long walks back through a crowd that wants to see him fail. And in his eyes he sees that lifetime of pain still lingering behind the surface, short moments of _what if_ that never disappears. The _what if_ that never stops haunting and whispers in your dreams over everything you did wrong.  
It's a feeling that he knows all too well. He sighs and folds his hands as if into prayer, if there was any prayers to the gods of racing that ever worked.  
“I just wanted to.. win one for them.”  
For a moment there is only silence, before he feels a warm hand grasp his shoulder and it throws him back to the time when things were simpler. When things weren't yet grey and forged by disease, when they still had so much time for a future that just looked bright.  
“I know Charles. I know.”  
It isn't words that threaten to break him as the hand disappears and his teammate leaves, it is the loss of the warmth and the time when everything was easier. And as soon as the door closes, he can't help it. Tears streak down his cheeks and he buries his head in his hands once more, anger collected by a grief that never truly lets go. One day he'll stand on the top spot, and he will remember sun-kissed skin and a hand ruffling through his hair as he raises the trophy to the sky, and it will all be done for them. Just for them as the song of his country reaches his heart.  
Only for them.

**Author's Note:**

> The race yesterday hurt me, I had to write. Then the writing hurt me. Halp.
> 
> I've had some ideas before on exploring the relationship of the drivers of team Ferrari and this basically forced its way into my head after yesterday. They have both had a lot of those moments that really hurt and they have gotten better from it. They're good teammates.  
> And when Charles mentioned he missed the gocart-times in that Road to F1-video I had to bring that in.


End file.
